For three years, I loved Ryan—believing we were building something lasting. I was 29, working relentlessly for a promotion I lost to a fresh graduate because corporate rumors branded me a future mom, not a professional. I confided in Ryan, thinking he understood.
On our anniversary, he reserved a romantic downtown restaurant. He told me to dress up—said he had a “surprise.” I imagined the proposal I’d been quietly hoping for.
Instead, dessert arrived with icing that read: “Congrats on Your Promotion!”
The promotion I never got.
Ryan smiled like it was a gift, insisting it was “manifesting good vibes.” But it felt like mockery. He humiliated me in public, turning my pain into a punchline. When I confronted him, he scoffed: “You weren’t close anyway. This was the only ‘congrats’ you were gonna get.”
I paid my share and left—shattered, but not broken.
Three days later, inspired by a friend, I hosted my own celebration. Ryan loved themed parties, especially ones about himself. So I threw him one—with black and gold balloons, a banner reading “Congrats on Becoming Bald!”, and a cake that mirrored mine: “Manifesting It Early!”
He walked in and froze. His friends laughed. I smiled: “Good vibes, right?”
He called me petty. I reminded him: his joke was cruel—mine was clever.
By the end of the night, Ryan stormed out. One of his friends stayed behind, impressed by my revenge, admitting Ryan hadn’t treated me right. He asked if I was free that weekend.
I smiled. “Only if you’re not afraid of a theme party.”
For the first time, I wasn’t the punchline—I was the author.
